


Larabee Initiative: Earth Two: Operation Simpson

by farad



Series: Larabee Initiative [3]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Larabee Initiative, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5606179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Earth Two, Operation Larabee has a relationship variation, and Chris Larabee uses a different tactic to recruit at least one operative to the team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Larabee Initiative: Earth Two: Operation Simpson

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of the crossover with the Marvel-verse media and comic universe, only this one takes place on Earth 2.

“Use whatever means you have to to find out who we can trust and who we can't. We don't have time to use the standard protocols, so trust your instincts, Chris. That's why I need you most of all.”

It was almost midnight when they left the restaurant, which had already closed its kitchen but turned into a bar with a late crowd of people coming in to drink, cruise, and generally forget the day. Buck paid the tab and Chris waited for him for a few minutes, until he had been gone too long, at which point he had gone back into the place to find Buck propped up on the bar between two women who were fr more interested in him than was wise on their part. 

Buck noticed Chris, raised his arms in a “what am I supposed to do?” gesture, then, when Chris pointed to his watch in a reminder of the time to meet in the morning, Buck nodded his agreement, and Chris fought his way back to the door. O

With some relief, truth be told. There was something he wanted to do, now that he had the chance. 

He had been aware of the business card in his pocket for the past seven hours, since the sharp-dressed Southerner had made his way out of the dive bar in the late afternoon. Even now, hours later, Chris wasn't sure how the card had gotten there. When he had reached in around ten to get money to pay the bar tab, he had found it there, along with the key card to his hotel room and the spare bills that he used to pay for incidentals. 

He had looked at it several times over the course of the evening, enough times to memorize the few things on it: Ezra Simpson, Investment Adviser, 855-Money4u.

Ezra Simpson. The name was bland enough to be an alias, and the phone number, a toll free number, left Chris little doubt but that the man was a professional con artist. 

But he had style. And he looked good. It had been hard to ignore the way his suit fit him perfectly, the way the suit coat was just long enough to show the curve of his ass – and that the material of the pants was just fine enough to mold to the curves perfectly, but not to cling. 

He might be a con artist, but he had money, and he knew how to make an appearance. 

If nothing else, Simpson wanted to talk to Chris alone. It might be about the job, in which case, Chris needed to talk to him before the morning. 

But a part of him wondered if it were about something else. And that part of him stirred low in his belly, a vibration he knew too well, one that got him into trouble more often than not. 

It could have been left over adrenalin. The situation at the hotel this afternoon had been a thrill, especially with the unknown element of Tanner. Chris wasn't accustomed to trusting someone immediately or going into a firefight with unknown backup. And it had been a long while since he'd been in a firefight where he was handicapped by the old strictures: incapacitation weapons versus kill weapons. He'd almost missed it. 

Almost. 

Whatever the case, the business card was hot in his pocket, the letters for 'Money4u' already converted to numbers in his head. 

It shouldn't have surprised him when he got voice mail. The disappointment was tempered a little, though, by the smooth drawl in the warm voice. “You've reached Ezra Simpson, Investment Adviser. I am researching new ways to make money for you, so please leave a message with your name and a way to return your call, and I assure you, I will be in touch as soon as I possibly can.”

“Chris Larabee, 575-717-7717, you left your business card in my coat pocket this afternoon. I assume this means you're meeting us at dawn.” 

He stopped at the street corner, debating whether to continue to walk to his motel or whether to find a taxi. He wasn't interested in riding a municipal bus at this time of the night.

As he looked at the four lanes of traffic, gauging the possibility of finding an available cab, he felt the vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. He wasn't surprised to find that it was Simpson. 

“Finish your research?” he asked by way of greeting. 

“As it happens, yes,” Simpson said, and there was a smugness in his voice that diminished some of Chris' interest. “I was unaware that I was talking to a certifiable celebrity today. A video of your antics – yours and your compatriots – has popped up on many of my newsfeeds, courtesy of the PR person for SouthWest Tech.” 

Chris almost cursed, remembering the Travis woman. A reporter prior to her employment with SouthWest Tech. And a person who liked to take stands on 'issues'. Dammit. 

“Thanks for the warning,” he said instead. “You planning to meet us in the morning?” Best to get this conversation over with so he could find Mary Travis and - 

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” Simpson said, derailing the rest of the thought. “Would you perhaps have time for a nightcap?” The way he drawled the word made it sound like much more than a drink. 

“Where?” Chris asked. 

“Where are you staying?” 

Chris hesitated for a second, but then decided that it didn't matter. He was leaving in the morning. “The Days Inn on Menaul – Midtown. There's a bar next door, the Shadow. How soon can you be there? I don't have all night.” 

Though he was hoping that he did. 

There was a pause on the other end, and Chris almost smiled as he considered the thoughts going through the man's head. The Days Inn wasn't the kind of hotel this man like to frequent – though he obviously knew of the dives in the city, and probably any city. 

Eventually, Simpson said, “Twenty minutes. Order me the finest brandy that they have – and you're paying, by the way, if I'm traipsing into that part of town for a business meeting.” 

“Seems you've already been 'traipsing into this part of town',” Chris shot back, but he grinned. “You afraid of college students and tourists?” 

“More like bedbugs and lice,” Simpson retorted just before he ended the call. 

Those words, though, gave Chris something to think about as he hurried down the street, having given up on finding a taxi in the short time he had before the meeting. 

The bar was somewhat nicer than the one in which they'd met, dark woods and a wooden floor. It wasn't too crowded for this time of night, but it was crowded enough. He managed to find two bar stools at the car corner of the bar, opposite the television which was showing a baseball game, and near the kitchen door, and the bartender had just put town the brandy – not in a snifter but in a low-ball glass – and his own whiskey over ice in a matching glass. 

Simpson arrived in the same suit he had been wearing earlier, the three piece charcoal and burgundy pinstripe suit with a burgundy tie, only now the tie was properly lodged under the buttoned vest and a golf pocket watch was tucked into the vest pocket, the chain glittering the low light of the bar in much the way the man's gold tooth did. Chris noticed that he also wore a small old earring, not in the lobe of his ear but up in the shell of the ear, in a spot just under the upper curl. 

He cut his way through the bar like a shark, nodding once when he saw Chris. “Mr. Larabee,” he said when he got close. 

“Got you the best they had,” Chris said, tilting his head to indicate the brandy. “Doubt it's what you'd like, but it's what they got.” 

Simpson nodded his thanks and picked up the glass. “To business,” he said, touching the glass that Chris was holding. Then he took a sip, let it sit on his tongue for a second, and shrugged. After he swallowed he said, “It is better than the swill I was drinking earlier.” 

“Or not drinking?” Chris grinned. “That was quite the performance this afternoon.”

Simpson shrugged dismissively, but Chris saw the sparkle in his hazel eyes. “One should never gamble unless one is willing to lose.” 

“True, but that works two ways. Were you willing to lose?”

Simpson grinned then, and as expected, the gold tooth twinkled in the light. “As I told you, I abhor gambling, and as such, I leave nothing to chance.” 

Chris leaned against the bar and with exaggerated slowness, he looked the man before him up and down. Like Simpson con earlier in the afternoon, this, too, was a performance, but he did appreciate the view. The suit fit the man perfectly, and the material of it was chosen to cling in the right places but not too much. It was subtle, as much so in the front as it was in the back. The curves that hinted at the tight muscles of his ass were also present in the front, and right now, it seemed that Mr. Simpson had similar interests in – and reactions to – the evening's potential. 

“Nothing?” Chris asked, finally letting his gaze return to Simpson's. “Seems like you took a gamble meeting me here.” 

Simpson smiled, but this time, it was predatory, just showing his canine teeth. “Perhaps,” he agreed, though Chris suspected that was more an appeasement than a truth. “Perhaps I find that I trust you.” 

At that, Chris laughed out right. The man could be a bald face liar when he wanted to be, too. And to his credit, Simpson chuckled as well, acknowledging the lie in his words. 

“So you wanna talk here or back in my lousy room?” Chris asked, almost surprised at his own boldness. 

As an answer, Standish drank down the rest of his brandy in one long swallow, exposing his long slender throat. He was a very attractive man, Chris observed. And that was with his clothes on. 

As he set the glass on the bar, Standish asked, “Do we need to purchase libations to whet our discussion?”

Chris let the words roll around in his head for a time, appreciating the archaic word choices. At times, it was as if this man were from some other time. Eventually, when Simpson started to frown, he said, “I've got a bottle of Maker's Mark back in the room, if that's good enough for you.” 

Simpson nodded. “It will do.” He stepped back a step and returned the long, appraising look Chris had given him earlier. “Indeed, it will do just fine,” he added. 

The walk was just long enough to give Chris time to consider what he was about to do. The vibration in the pit of his belly and the growing tickle in his groin kept him from thinking too much on the stupidity of this, though he was careful to keep Simpson in front of him or beside him, within sight. The man did have at least two guns on his person, and while one of them had had at least five blanks in it in the afternoon, there was no reason to assume that there were blanks there now. And there was the rig up his sleeve, which he dearly wanted to see. 

Later, he vaguely remembered the complications of getting it off without getting shot. It probably wasn't a help that his lips were locked with Simpson's and that his hand was far down the back of those clinging pants, finding that the curve of that flesh was even more perfect in the hand. 

Or that Simpson was trying to return the favor, trying to get the hand with the rig down the back of Chris' tight black denim. Fortunately, he extricated himself enough to work the straps of the rig free and get it on the bedside table – next to Chris' own holstered handguns. 

The bed squeaked, but that didn't bother either of them very much, distracted as they were with who was doing what to whom. Simpson's mouth was even better when it wasn't talking, and Chris figured out pretty quickly that his own hands distracted Simpson completely, especially when they touched with just the right pressure and roughness. 

The first time was fast, too fast, but then neither of them seemed able to step back and control it. Afterward, tangled together when their bellies stuck to each other and hair tickling their faces and necks, Simpson murmured, “That was not what I expected.” 

Chris snorted and pushed away, trying to catch his breath. “I'm not sure I should be apologizing.” He pushed up onto his elbows and surveyed the floor around the bed. It was littered with clothes, shoes and boots, and assorted weapons of all varieties, as if the two of them were walking armories.

Which, of course, they were. 

“That was not at all what I meant,” Simpson said, his accent stronger now. He rolled over onto his back and scratched at the scattering of dark hairs along his sternum. “No apologies should be needed on either side.” 

Chris dropped onto a pillow and closed his eyes for a time, until his body was relaxed and sleep was tugging at him. “Are we gonna talk about the morning?” he asked, thinking that he needed to set his alarm. 

A finger touched his inner thigh then slowly traced a path upward, playing with his own fine hair. “I'm not certain yet,” came the breathy response, just before those lips created a distraction that led to another slower yet more intense exchange of pleasure. 

At some point when he could again think, Chris mentally categorized everything he now knew about Simpson: he had a tattoo of a dollar sign on his inner left ankle, and solid gold bars in two different navel piercings, a scrotum piercing, and in each nipple. Similarly, he had a large diamond set in gold in a piercing in the center of his tongue that didn't affect his speech but it certainly did add to the sensations his tongue could cause in delicate flesh. 

It was one way to store emergency money. 

Simpson was also a natural brunette with some copper threads among the darker hairs. He worked out enough to be nicely toned and he did strength training, and probably some wrestling, as he knew how to hold and how to leverage his own weight effectively against someone else's. 

He had excellent taste in soaps, deodorants, and colognes – not too musky, not too sweet, and not too strong. 

He was practiced enough with revolvers to have callouses on his trigger fingers – and he was ambidextrous as the callouses were on both hands. He also wore the secret gun rig on each arm, though he preferred the right for it. 

And he had a lot of stamina. 

At four am, as Chris was gasping and wondering if he would be able to sit in a car long enough for the drive to Lanark, Simpson knee walked to the side of the bed and, with visible effort, forced himself into a sitting position. He grunted as he leaned down to start gathering his clothes, and Chris rolled onto his side so that he could watch. Weapons disappeared deftly into the layers of clothing as Simpson dressed, and Chris had a new respect for the man's tailor as it became clear that the clothes were custom designed on other levels as well. 

“Could use a man like you,” Chris said, his voice huskier than he'd expected. 

Simpson slid his feet into his thick soled loafers then maneuvered himself to his feet. He stepped carefully over to the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair, working it into some semblance of its former order. 

“If you are suggesting that I apply the talents I used here - “

“I am not,” Chris cut him off but he grinned. “Though that diamond stud thing might create a distraction.” 

Simpson glared Chris' reflection in the mirror as he said, “You are not winning your argument here.”

“Then let me try this: you need to get out of town. In fact, I'd wager that part of the appeal of answering my call this evening was that it would keep you out of your hotel room.” He arched an eyebrow, waiting for Simpson to reply. 

With grace, Simpson nodded, straightened the tie he had just finished knotting, and turned around to face Chris. “It was one of the considerations, yes. Though far from the only one. It's not as if I couldn't find other lodgings.” 

“You'll be off the radar for a few days,” Chris said, “and it could be fun.”

Simpson arched an eyebrow of his own. “Fun?” Then he glanced around the room. “Ah, you mean this sort of fun?”

Chris grinned. “Well, that wasn't exactly what I meant, but yeah, that, too.” Though he knew himself well enough to know that this sort of fun wasn't had while he was working. 

And he suspected that Simpson was the same way. There were qualities in the man that reminded Chris of himself.

Simpson picked up his suit coat from where he had draped it, at some point, over a chair. As he slid into it, carefully over the hidden gun rig, he said, “Are you sincere about the money? $500?”

“That's what they have,” Chris answered. “Though it may end up being more, as we don't seem to have but five of us at present.” 

“That's still a long way from what I would usually require for such an adventure.” He smoothed the coat into place and worried at the collar, so that it fit against the line of his neck. “Why, if I might ask, are you willing to undertake this? You hardly seem the type to need such work.”

Chris considered his answer, finding a good mix of truth and untruth. “Feel sorry for them. I wouldn't want anyone threatening my family and I'd do everything to stop it. And I don't like people who would do that. Makes me worry about what else they might be up to.” 

Simpson tilted his head to one side, his gaze direct as it held Chris'. “Are you a Company man, Mr. Larabee?” 

Chris sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I reckon you know better. You had time to look me up while you were waiting to see if I called – which is how you found the video of what happened with Jackson. You found out that I worked for the Company a while back but that I left on hard terms.” 

Simpson nodded and seemed to soften a little. “I am sorry about your family,” he said softly. Before Chris could answer, he straightened and said, “I don't have your motivation, but I admit to a certain curiosity about the people who would do this – and what they want with the Genizaros. To that end, yes, I will meet you in a couple of hours. I do need to get my possessions first, however, and tie up a few things before we depart.” He turned and started toward the door. 

“Ezra,” Chris said, standing up and walking the short distance between them to catch the other man's hand. “Glad to have you with us.” He leaned in a kissed him quickly on the lips. “Though I'd feel better if I knew your real name.” 

Ezra drew back and for a second, he looked offended. 

But then he smiled. “Ezra is my give name, but Standish is my family name.” 

Ezra Standish. Chris didn't trust that it was true, but he did think that it as closer than Simpson. He nodded and grinned again. “See you in a couple of hours.”

Ezra nodded, then he, too, leaned in quickly and brushed his lips over Chris'. It was just enough contact to leave a tingle on the skin and a whiff of his fine cologne as a memory of the pleasure they had shared. 

As the door closed, Chris drew a deep breath and smiled. It was shaping up to be more of an adventure than he'd expected.


End file.
